


It Could've Been Perfect

by jattendrai



Category: Mother 3
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 19:59:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11448003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jattendrai/pseuds/jattendrai
Summary: But he was special. To them, at least; he was Lucas, the greatest boy there was.





	It Could've Been Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> ''カナメヲ'' by Adustam was some inspiration for this fic

It was all decided even before they talked it over.

Chemistry; made between them, it would be impossible to separate them now, from the bond that binds them. Lucas could now never imagine a time waking up without finding Duster and Kumatora close by. It was the adventure that carved them into a family, and there was no need to break this tie --- what good would it do? They have nowhere to return to, now that the world had reset itself.

They made their home in each other’s arms, and it would stay like that --- like an oath --- til death parted them.

Finding a home wasn’t too difficult once the trek back to Nowhere was made. Neither questioned how Duster managed it, but apparently the original owners found a better spot up North and were glad to give their cabin to them, though they talked with a bit of pity in their voice as they searched over each of their weary faces.

The eeriness of the place was a discomforting fact for Lucas at first, until Kumatora managed to slide down the stair rail and launch herself onto the carpet, laughing as she tumbled Lucas to the ground; soon, it was a duel, and Lucas was sliding all over the mahogany flooring as he raced after Kumatora in her dust. Tumbling up and down stairs, spinning each other around tables and nearly colliding with Duster as he scopes the kitchen, it was only when Kuma was caught blocked by a sofa that Lucas managed to catch up to her, quick to fall for her ‘’trap’’ as she turns around and catches him in her arms, tumbling them both to the floor.

“ You lose!” She says, ruffling his hair up with a noogie.

“ What! No, I got, got you!” He couldn’t help but giggle as she attempted to keep him down.

“ I caught you, you lose! Those’re the rules, cub!”

Laughter breaks from them both, then, and Duster is quick to enter the scene of commotion.

The mood lifts from then on. All it takes to make a house a home is love after all.

Stumbling back in a routine of daily life was another hurdle they all dealt with together; each were so used a lifestyle of their own, so to combine their habits and adjust to new ones together was a chaotic disaster of their own, but somehow they managed.

The house soon filled with things that made it their own, from various assortments of clothes strewn about to paper decorations Lucas insisted on to ‘brighten up the mood’ --- Duster had gone and found himself a hobby of knitting to relax him, give him time to rest the body of his that ached so very often. He knitted blankets, mostly, which soon covered every bed and couch, occasionally being swept away to become a cape or a cloke during Lucas’ various imaginary adventures.

Kumatora had a knack for breaking stuff sometimes, and had made this place her own by slight boot indents near the bottom of the walls, a very circular hole in one bathroom wall from when she was attempting to kill a bug and got too…. Excited to say the least, and she even managed to kick out a spoke on the stair railing.

Together the chaos came together, though, and they were falling into a life of comfort in their days of peace and quiet.

That was, until something sudden comes.

An unexpected sickness hits the three of them. Supposedly brought by the industrialization of their island, it was a foreign experience to them that they knew no cure for, so they waited it out; Duster was the least effected, able to continue routine was Kumatora and Lucas were bedridden together. He made sure to keep constant watch on them both -- quite funnily, it didn’t seem at all that they were sick, as Kumatora still managed to be just as much of a jokester and loudmouth even while running a high fever, and Lucas still managing up out of his bed and attempting a game of Go Fish while heavily disorientated.

Two weeks, it took to recover. Two weeks of hot soup and half-finished glasses of cold water, of vomit stains being cleaned out of fresh linens and cold flashes in the night; two weeks later, and they’re back to being themselves, jumping on the couch and helping Duster collect firewood for the stove. It eased him, of that fear he felt, of something he never quite felt before.

Of losing something important.

Days go by then, of no importance; routine, adventures, fights, laughter. Living the peaceful life, a heart being built into the house, a place once so vast and cold slowly being one of warmth and love.

They celebrated birthdays, holidays, special occasions; Lucas managed a fascination with fireworks and sparklers, and spent countless warm summer nights running around the front yard with sparklers in his hands, laughing as he made funny patterns into the air. Kumatora had a love for gift-giving occasions, always making her presents grandiose and over-the-top; Duster, being a simple man, enjoyed just the aspects of these days, of happiness filling the house over making cookies and stringing lights, watching the stars and telling scary stories by lamplight while a storm rages overhead.

But through these days that became weeks, that turned to months, there was something quite obvious --- something was wrong with Lucas.

It came slowly. Undetected signs, like weeds, carefully blooming unnoticed even by the garden they lived in, and only when they spread their roots beyond control was it obvious they lived there.

He began to eat less, it seems. He talks about being tired more easily, strange for such a young child still growing into himself. There are days where his energy is too low for him to even get out of bed, days where he wouldn’t be able to keep anything down. Eyelids sinking, nights where it was too hard too breath or call out as he suffocated and thrashed in his bed turning into weeks of constant naps and headaches, running temps on chilly days and collapsing at random.

Soon he was bedridden, around two months into the worsening of his symptoms. Food was brought to him by a gentle Kumatora, careful to hold the bowl with both hands and knock before entering. Solid foods became too hard to eat, and carefully they stocked up on soups and breads. 

Too tired to play games, they began to read to him instead, each taking turns to entertain him with a new book, watching him nod ever so slightly as he lay in bed, flushed face shying away from the sunlight coming in through the windows.

It was obvious there was something terribly, terribly wrong, but what could they do? There was nothing to solve this, nothing to make him better beyond what they already tried, from various medicines to foods to therapies.

He was falling apart, it seemed --- right in front of them, like a ragdoll, and no matter how much stuffing they place back in or how many times they sew over the rough spots, the irreplaceable fabric just comes undone somewhere else. He was disappearing.

He was disappearing. Their Lucas, their incredible Lucas, was……. Dying.

 

It was at night, during a heavy rainstorm that rolled over the Nowhere Islands, that he closed his eyes and fell asleep, took his last breath, and relaxed. It was when Kumatora was just finishing up one of books they were reading, just a few more pages before they could call it done and place it back on the shelf, when she looked over to him and saw it.

He turned his head to her softly, taking one last look to her before rolling his head back in place, a smile almost coming to him before his face relaxed. For a moment she just sat there and listened as if he was going to say something, before soon realizing that his chest was no longer in movement and that something was very, very wrong.

Oh god.

She couldn’t scream she couldn’t call she couldn’t call out for Duster she couldn’t do anything but sit there in the wooden chair and realizing what was happening, she couldn’t do anything to bring him back or pull him away, she couldn’t. Something came to her eyes and she knew it was tears but she was hoping it was just her trying to wake up, that this was all a dream and that she couldn’t feel the warmth of his body slowly fade in his hands and cheeks and that she wasn’t watching the flush of his face turn cold.

Coming in waves now she cried, she kneeled before the bed and grasped his hand and cried, cried until there was a pool in the sheets and she couldn’t feel anything in her hands anymore and could muster enough energy to choke a broken cry, “ _ Duster _ !”

Footsteps echoed like the patter of rain until Duster emerged at the door, fright deep in his face as he walks into the scene. 

It was already too late, he was gone before she even realized, what was the point? There was no point, there was no point in anything. There was no point in doing anything except cry, crying was all that could be done.

Hands reach under her arms and pulls her weight off the floor, forcing her to release the slack hand as she’s lifted onto her feet --- quickly she turns and shoves Duster away from her, bolting from the room and down the hall, a clap of thunder ending her dramatic leave and breaking the silence of the room, even just for a moment.

He looked at him, for some reason. Just stared, searching for nothing as his eyes looked over how still his body was.

Something left him, a piece of him, almost; a feeling. He could feel it, the emptiness beginning his chest, as he dipped down to touch the cheek of the body --- of the shell --- of someone he loved.

There was nothing he could do, and it this thought that was left with him in the darkness, for there was nothing else in this room to keep him company.

He stayed there until sunrise, until the rain parted and light came back through the windows; he stayed in the bed hoping to feel movement, hoping to look over and see Lucas roll over in wake from a deep sleep, to ask why Duster was sitting at the foot of it and why he looks so tired.

But of course it doesn’t happen.

They begin preparation, once Kumatora makes her way back up the stairs, wrapping him carefully in soft linen to cradle the shell. The very sight of his flushed cheeks having caved in overnight was all but too much for her, and she left the room. They both did; hey left him for a day in the bed, constantly coming by as if to watch in wonder to him miraculously waking up and questioning why they put this weird cloth on him.

But that never happened. He stayed the same throughout the night: cold, silent, soft, as if he’d disappear in the darkness like a shadow, nothing left to keep him bound to this world.

It was daybreak, a calm, warm one after another heavy night of rain upon the mountains. The morning sunlight was soft against the linen, warming, and for a moment it casted something to his face as Duster entered --- a fleeting look of life, though Duster was not easy to trick like that.

He knew there was only so much Kumatora could actually handle, even behind her persona of tough-and-rumble brashness. He didn’t want to put her in any more distress, and so left her to sleep softly as he crept out of house with Lucas, tight in his arms, making sure to grab a shovel on his way out.

He knew what had to be done, whether it was what he wanted or not --- really, what he wanted was for Lucas to come back to him, to be sleeping quietly in his arms and to feel his heartbeat again, to know the boy who saved the world --- and him, and kumatora --- was there to watch the sunrise with him again, to complain about how scented their detergent was, to bring him fistfuls of dandelions to make wishes on and to watch as he swung sparklers around in the air with the fireflies as if he, too, was dancing among them.

But that wasn’t possible, and he knew his heart would never beat again, and there was nothing to do about it except to lay him to rest in the one place he knew best.

The trek was long, it was tiring, it was suffocating. There were times where he wished the world had just ended instead, so that this never happened. He wished, hard, on all the dandelions he kicked up along the way.

It was late afternoon when he got there, the sun drenching his back in heat. Sweat fell from his face and for a moment he felt the need to remove the linen from Lucas but quietly knew that he could no longer feel heat, he could not feel the sun on him. He could not feel anything.

It was strange to be back, in a way. The hills still rolled the same and the grass still swayed, and in the distance he could hear the sound of the ocean waves lapping up at the shores. A thief always knew his way around in secrecy, and it was with ease that he managed to go unspotted up to the top of the hill to where she lay.

Hinawa’s grave.

It was beaten in by time and wear, but the sunflowers plotted around the thick stone gave it away; beyond it was miles of blue sky, beautiful as it always was on afternoons like this, rolling over oceanside and trees as clouds softly cased the horizon in hopes to bring another storm.

He had to get to work, so carefully he placed Lucas on the soft grass and unlatched the shovel from the makeshift strap on his back, and began to dig.

The sun only made it worse with each dig, exhaustion almost overcoming him as he had forgotten that he was in fact getting older, and getting brittle, and hurting more --- but still, he never let his concentration faltered as he dug into the earth, until he believed it was fit.

Staring at him one last time, carefully placed into the crevice of the Earth and softly tucked into the linen, almost broke him; it was only until this moment that he realized he had yet to cry, only to realize that what was falling from his face was not sweat, but tears.

He was never allowed to cry at home, no matter what the case, and now the foreign feeling overwhelmed him so. He dropped to his knees and tried to wipe each tear away with his hands, dirty with the soil, but they kept coming. No noise, just tears, not wanting to make a scene in front of such a spot.

 

Sunset. The soil placed back into the spot it came, covering up the existence of someone so dear. 

The sun fell to the horizon as Duster headed back down the hill, wiping away a last tear caught on his face.

Turning to look back, as if in hopes of something ( what though?), he could see the sunflowers still wave, as if to wish him a last goodbye. He returns the wave, for some reason, some sinking reason, and begins back down the hill.

Surprisingly, Kumatora is waiting for him on the porch when he gets back, looking neither angry nor upset --- just, fatigued. Tired. Eyes dark with under circles, bloodshot from who knows how many bouts of crying, hunched over her beaten knees and refusing to make eye contact.

She knew what was done, without a single word being said; it was the joy of being so close, the three of them, that they didn’t have to ask to know what the other was doing.

But it wasn’t the three of them anymore, it was just two now; she didn’t want to admit it, but Duster knew how long it would take for Kumatora to let go, being a creature of habit she was. She’ll be caught walking to his door to wake him up, accidently setting a place for him at the dinner table, wandering around outside in wait for him to come out and plan their next adventure.

She’ll wait years for him to return from the place on the hill, though a part of her knows he’ll never return. The magypsies didn’t return, so why would he? He wasn’t special.

But he was special. To them, at least; he was Lucas, the greatest boy there was.

An arm meets her back and she doesn’t even need to look to fall into Duster’s embrace, a subtle moment between them. 

Storm clouds are rolling back in for another night of rain, but they don’t head inside as it begins to pour --- they just sit there, on the porch, listening to the clouds cry for them, because they’re all too tired to do it anymore.


End file.
